The robot sits,
Silently, sullenly,
In defiance of the repairman.
Oblivious to his creativity,
Mocking his frantic fingertips,
with mute intransigence.
And as the clock ticks away,
The foreman's mood darkens,
From mild irritation,
To apoplectic consternation.
And the folks on the line,
Thumb through magazines,
Or or talk to each other, Yesterday's football game,
Tomorrow's weather,
An 8 second quarter mile,
Did you see those two carrying on?
An unexpected freedom.
Five, six, seven minutes,
The repairman codes correctly,
And the re-synched robot,
Springs into action amidst a flurry of sparks.
The foreman sighs, jokes into his radio.
And the folks on the line,
Begin the countdown,
To the next break.
